


Angles of geometry I'd thought impossible

by clottedcreamfudge



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Because of Reasons, Brotherly Bonding, Coffee, Coffee Shops, Deputy Derek Hale, Derek Hale is a Softie, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Epic Bromance, Everybody Lives, First Dates, Flirting, Good Sex, Gratuitous use of italics, M/M, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Oh no I accidentally wrote a partial coffee shop AU, Pack Dynamics, Papa Stilinski is Mayor now, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Scott's surname is Delgado because Melissa deserves this okay, Sex, Sex is a thing that happens here, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski's Moles, Stiles does horrible things to coffee, True Alpha Scott McCall (Teen Wolf)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 18:03:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19381930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clottedcreamfudge/pseuds/clottedcreamfudge
Summary: “Your parents named you Stiles Stilinski,” he says, derision clear in his voice.“I mean obviously that’s not my real first name, Derek - but that’s really more of a third date conversation,” he adds, winking - this does nothing to help the heat in Derek’s ears recede. He gives up and sighs, letting his head fall into his hands.“This is not a date,” he says, muffled and defeated, but still reasonably clear. “This is meant to be an interrogation. I haven’t even had any coffee this morning.”-Derek would just like to be left alone so he can solve this case in peace, without attractive people ruining his plans with their nice hands or whatever.





	Angles of geometry I'd thought impossible

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aussiebee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aussiebee/gifts), [tintagel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tintagel/gifts).



> Title from 'The Venus Hottentot (1. CUVIER)', Elizabeth Alexander
> 
> I started this in September 2018 so honestly, I'm throwing shade at myself right now. Also, hooray for my 10th work on AO3! *streamers*
> 
> Aussiebee, my darling - sorry this took so long. I'm bad at being a human person.
> 
> Tintagel - this is all your fault. Your texts always inspire me to do these terrible things, so I lay the blame squarely at your be-heeled feet. (Thank you for keeping your nefarious texts to before 10pm so that I can stare at the ceiling uninterrupted for a solid hour, trying to drift into a temporary coma.)

Derek’s morning is going fine.

Sure, he forgets to actually put the kettle on when he goes to make coffee, so he ends up going without caffeine, but he’s a grown man - he’ll get over it. And maybe he doesn’t have time to stop in anywhere because he’s already running later than he’d like, but it’s not the end of the world.

He’s also decided that the grease stain on his uniform pants that didn’t come out with regular washing doesn’t really matter; he’ll take the whole uniform to the dry cleaners tomorrow. Never mind that it’s right on the ass and it looks-- _suspect_.

(He’s probably never going to offer to root around in the engine of Mrs Finch’s old Buick again when he’s meant to be on his way home from a 12-hour shift - even _if_ she offers him homemade iced tea and her renowned chocolate pound cake, which is kind of his Kryptonite. She kept touching his arms and cooing; it was more than a little disconcerting.)

But it’s all fine. _He’s_ fine. Derek is so ready to rise above this, because they might finally have a breakthrough on the case that’s been driving him up the wall for at _least_ the last month and a half.

Beacon Hills is the last place most people would expect to find a drugs ring - which is exactly why, Derek muses as he clocks in at the front desk, it’s the _perfect_ place to run a drugs ring. They’ve been hitting dead end after dead end for weeks now, but Hernandez pulled someone in this morning following an anonymous tip-off. There’s a familiar itch under his skin that tells him this could _be_ something; _the_ something.

Or it could just be the caffeine withdrawal.

“Hale, did you forget how to use a razor again? I keep telling you to see someone about those memory problems - also you’re starting to look like a mountain man. Or a bear.” Erica, his partner (and unfortunately his best friend, for his sins) is sitting at his desk with a smug look on her face. This is fairly usual for her; she’s a horrendously chipper morning person, and it _stings_.

Derek rolls his eyes and heads for the coffee machine, rubbing his (slightly fuller than usual) scruff absently with one hand; he _did_ forget to shave this morning, he realises. At this point he’s just glad he managed to put his shoes on the right feet - which he quickly confirms with a glance downward. He places a brown paper cup under the spout and presses a button on the ancient coffee machine, making it groan and splutter like a doctor’s waiting room. The machine, which serves an awful brown sludge he usually avoids, is probably older than he is.

(And arguably just as cantankerous on a cold November morning.)

“I’m taking your shift tomorrow just so you can spend the night doing - and I quote - ‘salacious things’ with Boyd. I would choose your next words very carefully,” he says gruffly, grimacing at the inhuman noises happening above his still-empty paper cup.

“Oh, it’s broken,” Erica says cheerfully, holding up a steaming hot cup of what smells like chamomile tea. “Hernandez did a run earlier this morning when she pulled in our lead -- oh!” She puts her cup down with too much force, the hot liquid splashing over the rim slightly and sending a wave of nausea flowing through Derek’s body. He really hates the smell of chamomile and now it is 100% going to be on his paperwork. Erica ignores the mess and shoves a file at him, flapping her hands in a shooing motion.

“You have the guy waiting for you in Interrogation Room One - the Sheriff said you should take it since you’re the lead on the investigation.” She herds him towards the back of the precinct, where their _only_ Interrogation Room is located, along with a number of cells that usually hold nothing more than a drunk and disorderly sleeping it off.

Blessedly, Erica lets him go so she can go and chat to one of the regulars. “Morning, Jake,” Derek mutters, raising a hand to Mr Matheson as he passes along the corridor running by the holding cells. Jake waves back and smiles faintly. “Morning, Detective Hale. I hear you’ve been letting Mrs Finch take advantage of you again - don’t you let that old gal win you over with her pound cake now will you.” Derek cracks a smile and keeps walking - Erica cackles.

(Jake Matheson is always given the nicest cell, with extra blankets - he turns himself in when he’s been hitting the bottle a little too hard and he knows he’s a danger to himself, which is every other weekend since his husband passed. They don’t know what else to do for him but if this is all they can offer then they’ll hand it over every time.)

Derek straightens up reflexively as he nears the door to the interrogation room, scenting the air for anything familiar as he goes; while it’s difficult to explain away any of his natural advantages as “hunches”, he doesn’t like to go in unprepared. He hasn’t been told much, but the message he got from Hernandez this morning was clear: _this could be it_.

He opens the door, steps inside, and freezes.

The metal chair that usually plays host to miscreants, criminals, and the odd mid-shift nap has been pushed back so it’s almost pressed against the wall. The occupant of said chair has one foot up on the table, the other resting on the concrete floor in a sprawl, creating an obscene spread with the ‘v’ of his denim-clad thighs. With no apparent care for the weather, the seated man is wearing a thin henley that stretches taut over broad shoulders; though there’s a hoodie of some kind hanging from the back of the chair, Derek is faintly and _unbearably_ glad that the wearer is seemingly immune to the recent drop in temperature.

Then comes the real problem. The guy’s head is thrown back, exposing the long, pale column of his throat. He’s too fixated on the pulse he can see fluttering beneath the skin to even look at his face. There are _moles._

Derek is fucked. 

He clears his throat and focuses on the file in his hands, stamping his way (a little harder than necessary) over to the table and pulling out the other chair. He sits down, opens the file and - after starting a little at the name in front of him - looks up.

He doesn’t get a chance to say anything.

“I feel like maybe you should be wearing a leather jacket. You could _rock_ a leather jacket, dude.” The guy has taken his foot off the table and is now leaning forward, looking at Derek with sparkling eyes and a quirk to his lips that falls just shy of a smirk; the moles on his neck that Derek absolutely does _not_ want to map with his tongue extend to his face, which is completely awful. He’s also giving Derek the most blatant mental undressing he’s ever been subject to.

It’s the first time he’s liked it. 

“Don’t call me dude,” he says shortly, folding his arms in a way that he’s been told is ‘incredibly intimidating’ and ‘makes you look a little like you’re on steroids okay you should probably put down the protein shakes’. “Mr Stilinski, you’ve been brought here in connection with an ongoing investigation. Given your likely acquaintance with the law, I’m sure you know the procedure - I need to ask you a few questions..” The man shimmies his chair forward with alarming speed, then places his elbows on the table, waggling his eyebrows. He looks dumb and not at all alluring.

“Please tell me one of them is ‘what are you doing Friday night?’ because I can tell you right now it’s either ‘nothing at all’ or ‘going on a date with a super hot werewolf cop’ and I’m betting the $2.50 I have in my account that I can convince you it’s the latter.”

Derek freezes and flares his nostrils automatically, on high alert and searching for an explanation: gunmetal, wolfsbane - anything. But there’s just the (admittedly mouthwatering) scent of the guy in front of him; spice, crisp fall leaves and something warm and almost electric.

Stilinski sees his panic and cocks his head to the side, which should make him look like a puppy but instead just puts his throat on show again. Which, now Derek thinks about it, he’s probably doing on purpose.

Doesn’t mean it’s going to stop working though.

“Okay is this a gay panic or an assuming-I’m-a-hunter panic? If it’s the former, I would like to inform you that this is the 21st century and also it is _definitely_ not my fault that you’re really hot, okay?” Derek’s eyes flash before he can stop himself; he immediately glances up at the cameras in the interrogation room with a poorly-concealed wince.

“Don’t worry, Cujo, I disabled the cameras before you got here - just you and me and a whole lot of sexual tension,” Stilinski says with a wink.

“Good,” Derek snarls and stands up, smoothly grabbing the front of the guy’s henley and hauling him in across the table. Stilinski looks annoyingly unperturbed by this. In fact, he’s positively beaming.

“Yeah buddy, that’s the spirit! Embracing the energy between us, I like it,” he says, patting Derek’s hand. Alarmingly, all Derek can notice is how nice the guy’s hands are, fingers long and distracting. They look strong and capable --

Probably of _drug-peddling_ and _murder_ , he reminds himself.

“Who are you aligned with? The Argents? The Calaveras?” It’s galling how little Derek’s grip on the front of Stilinski’s shirt seems to be bothering him. The other man rolls his eyes.

“I’m not a hunter, dude - do I smell like wolfsbane to you?” Admittedly, he doesn’t, but there’s something in the background that Derek can’t quite parse out; a lack of wolfsbane doesn’t mean he’s safe or even _sane_. “I’m aligned with the Delgado pack, which I would have told you in a better setting - a _bar_ for example - except that you’re, like, always working.” There go his goddamn eyebrows again.

Derek lets go of him, anger and annoyance fading into resignation.

“I’m not looking for a pack,” he says shortly, pushing Stilinski’s shoulder with just enough force that he falls back into his chair. He sits down himself and Stilinski blows a raspberry; Derek studiously ignores him, going back to the file open on the table between them. It’s probably no longer relevant, though he’ll admit that he was somewhat intrigued by the prospect of meeting the old Sheriff’s son once he caught sight of the name in the file; Noah Stilinski still comes in occasionally in his role as Mayor to steal doughnuts from the front desk and check that Parrish is living up to the badge.

“How did you know that’s what I was going to talk to you about?” Stilinski says petulantly, arms crossed over his chest. “Your people brought _me_ here, not the other way around. This could all be a big coincidence!” Derek fixes him with a hard look.

“I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to imagine that you got yourself arrested just so you could make your overtures,” he says flatly. 

“You make it sound so seedy,” Stilinski says forlornly, blinking his stupid Bambi eyes at Derek like that’s going to _do_ something.

(It’s kind of doing something.)

The thing is, Derek has _heard_ about the Delgado pack - of course he has. He’s been in the area for long enough that he knows what’s real and what’s rumour. He’s an Alpha without a pack, living just outside of the town he grew up in because he doesn’t deserve to stand where his forebears had stood; he was just too angry and too tired to try and broach an agreement with the new pack. A new pack with a True Alpha, no less, whose leader is barely out of College and whose Emissary - 

Derek freezes.

The Emissary. The first Spark in a century with the power to do more than just make a mountain ash circle; a kid who’s constantly underestimated by people older and wiser than him because he wears hooded sweatshirts and buzzes with something they can’t understand. Suddenly, the disabled cameras make a lot more sense.

“Alpha Delgado sent his Emissary,” Derek says suddenly - Stilinski beams.

“I know, I’m surprised too! I always wanted to be an astronaut,” he says, throwing his hands up in the air in a ‘what can you do?’ gesture. “Or a Russian spy, but then I learnt that you had to be Russian, so…” he trails off, leaning back more comfortably in his chair. 

Derek is still staring at him. Emissaries are usually older, more experienced… Less mind-blowingly hot, frankly. He’s not really sure what to say, or do, because despite having worked in Beacon Hills for the last few years, he has managed to avoid any contact at all with the local pack.

He’s kind of wishing he hadn’t done that now.

After a period of silence in which Stilinski looks perfectly comfortable (though his leg doesn’t stop moving the whole time, like he’s vibrating with some quiet energy), the other man leans forward, propping his head up on steepled fingers.

“Scott,” he begins in a low voice, “- that is, Alpha Delgado - is a True Alpha. I’m pretty sure you knew that already. But all of this is new to him and the only thing keeping us from being swarmed by bigger and badder Alphas wanting this territory is a very carefully crafted reputation.” The corner of his mouth twitches with the ghost of a smile. “That, and my not inconsiderable magical talent.”

Derek takes a moment to process. In spite of what people may assume of him at first glance - all brawn, no brain, kind of terrifying - he’s a thinker; he was trained as a peacekeeper and second-in-command, and speaks several languages. He was never meant to be an Alpha but he at least had the benefit ( _“for a time,"_ he can’t help but think, somewhat bitterly) of a stable and loving pack, with more collective werewolf and supernatural knowledge than you could shake a stick at.

Alpha Delgado was bitten by a rogue Alpha when he was still a teenager - or so the story goes - and it was only his own inherent _goodness_ and the tenacity of his best friend that kept him on the right path.

(Derek can only assume that he is now looking at the _best friend_ portion of that equation.)

“So what, Stilinski - you want me to… step in?” Derek says slowly - because it sounds insane, but this is where all the signs are pointing; he may have been on the back foot for this whole exchange but he’s just about catching up. An Alpha without training, an Emissary with more power than he knows how to handle… He’s not an idiot.

A liability, maybe, but not an idiot.

There’s a real smile on Stilinski’s face now, which sends an unwelcome heat through Derek’s body, unfurling like wildfire. He knows better than to think he’s not blushing; he recognises the telltale heat at the tips of his ears and sets his face into a scowl.

“I mean, yeah, in summary - and Jesus Christ _please_ call me Stiles,” he says, his smile turning into a grimace. “I keep thinking my dad’s behind me, it’s freaking me out.” Derek snorts involuntarily.

“Your parents named you _Stiles Stilinski_ ,” he says, derision clear in his voice; he has no idea how to deal with this man and it’s making him feel things he isn’t sure he’s ready for at 9am. Stiles doesn’t seem to notice though, snorting and folding his arms.

“I mean _obviously_ that’s not my real first name, Derek - but that’s really more of a third date conversation,” he adds, winking - this does nothing to help the heat in Derek’s ears recede. He gives up and sighs, letting his head fall into his hands.

“This is not a date,” he says, muffled and defeated, but still reasonably clear. “This is meant to be an interrogation. I haven’t even had any coffee this morning.”

He didn’t mean to say that last bit.

“Well,” Stiles says slowly from somewhere outside the protective bubble provided by Derek’s own hands, “we could probably rectify that. I’ve thrown a lot of info at you this morning - the least I can do is buy you a coffee.” Derek looks up, sees the warm smile on Stiles’ face, and gives in.

“Fine,” he says shortly. He stands abruptly, pushing back his chair with a squeal and closing his now-redundant file with a snap. It’s all wrong anyway. “I hope your bank account can handle a triple shot espresso.” Stiles snorts and stands up too, grabbing the hoodie from the back of his chair and throwing it over his shoulder like a dishcloth. 

“The coffee buying will be _strictly metaphorical_. The pack gets free coffee for _life_ after we removed that nest of pixies from _The Brew_ ’s basement,” he says; he pauses then, clearly ( _sadly_ , Derek’s treacherous mind provides) succumbing to the thoroughly un-Californian temperatures, shoves his (still flailing) arms into the hoodie. He doesn’t bother to zip it up, so Derek can still sneak glances at his collar bones and feel maybe a little ashamed about it. “My $2.50 is earmarked for instant noodles.” Derek can’t help but wince.

“Just because you run with wolves doesn’t mean you need to eat like them.” He knows from experience that a werewolf metabolism can be both a blessing and a curse. Sure, you can eat a whole pizza in less than seven minutes in the knowledge that you’ll work it off - and more - at the next full moon, but you’re hungry half an hour later.

Their food bills when he was a kid were astronomical.

To his surprise, he suddenly feels a hand on his wrist where he’d just been reaching for the door. He stops and looks around to see Stiles grinning widely.

And then, without a word of explanation, he’s lifting his shirt up.

When Derek had pictured his death, he’d imagined it to be a bit more dramatic; maybe fighting a wendigo or sacrificing himself to save someone more important (like pretty much _anybody_ ) -- he hadn’t pictured dying of embarrassment because he couldn’t deal with the possibility of seeing an attractive guy’s hip bones.

When Derek finally manages to engage his brain, he realises that Stiles is pointing at something on one of the aforementioned hip bones, and Derek forces himself to look properly, and to completely ignore what he _actually_ wants to look at.

It takes him a moment to realise what he’s _meant_ to be looking at. It’s a tattoo; a large one, dipping below the waistline of Stiles’ jeans and drifting halfway up his ribcage, though it’s not particularly vibrant. It doesn’t look like a drunk mistake or an act of deliberate rebellion. This wasn’t inked in Ibiza. He turns his head slightly and the tattoo resolves itself into a giant paw, the colouring slightly darker where the tips of invisible claws appear to be sunk into the flesh of Stiles’ stomach.

 _Ah_ , Derek thinks a bit stupidly. He looks up and meets Stiles’ eyes - he’s still grinning but there’s maybe the faintest hint of a blush high up on his cheekbones.

“Let me tell you, mine looks _way_ cooler than Scott’s. He got a stupid human handprint - I got a giant freakin’ paw,” he says, stretching his own fingers out over the mark in a way that makes Derek’s insides go hot.

“A bit of an archaic way to bond an Emissary to his Alpha,” he says somewhat tersely, keeping his eyes firmly on Stiles’ face. Stiles shrugs, still smiling, and drops the hem of his shirt, which Derek refuses to be disappointed by.

“It was a formality. We’re brothers - neither of us is going anywhere.”

“It makes you stronger though,” Derek says, taking this conversation to its logical conclusion. “You’re faster than a regular human - probably have slightly better senses too. A better-”

“-Metabolism - the most important part,” Stiles interrupts happily, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and rocking on the balls of his feet.

“I was going to say ‘a better sense of _taste_ ,” Derek lies, finally turning away to open the door. “Obviously you missed out on that part.” He raises his eyebrows and indicates the open door. Stiles is grinning again - does he ever _stop_?

“You’re _funny_ ,” he says, sounding delighted by this observation, if mildly accusatory. “How is that even possible? Nobody who looks like _you_ should ever have to cultivate a sense of humour. You should be totally boring to level the playing field. Or like… smell bad or something.” Derek blinks at him.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he deadpans, pushing Stiles out of the room, ignoring his protests and shutting the door behind them.

“Now you’re just _fishing_ ,” Stiles says petulantly as they make their way down the corridor, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows in a way that is simultaneously absent-minded and needlessly violent. “C’mon dude, I’ve seen GQ cover models who’d find you intimidating - don’t tell me you don’t own a mirror. It must be difficult for you to even _leave the house_ in case you get _mobbed_.”

“Are you always this…” Derek gestures vaguely with one hand then runs it through his hair with a sharp exhalation of breath.

“Annoying?” Stiles asks dryly, raising his eyebrows. He’s not offended, but only because he’s conditioned himself not to be - that much is obvious.

“Relentless,” Derek corrects. Stiles, for the first time since he messed up Derek’s carefully planned interrogation, looks surprised - and a little pleased. Derek feels himself flushing again, and turns to lock the door before he can say anything else incriminating.

He’s just glad he’d managed to stop himself saying ‘passionate’.

 

* * *

 

The coffee shop is quiet when they arrive; it’s late morning, so the steady stream of highly-strung suits have long since left to make themselves miserable in buildings as grey as they are. The lunch rush isn’t due for another hour or so, which means that the coveted booths are completely free - and Stiles doesn’t waste a second sliding into the one closest to the counter with a juvenile fist pump that shouldn’t be endearing.

The barista by the coffee machines just rolls her eyes affectionately, setting to work on some kind of frosted caramel double shot monstrosity that looks, frankly, like something a child would drink. Jenny, according to her nametag, pulls out several syrup bottles from the overhead cabinets and does unspeakable things to a coffee that is increasingly indistinguishable from an ice cream sundae.

There are _sprinkles_.

“And what’ll it be for Tall, Dark & Handsome?” she intones dryly while she’s adding the finishing touches to a tower of whipped cream and caffeine. “I don’t imagine I’m too far off the mark with a triple espresso.” Derek raises an eyebrow. 

“That’s _Deputy_ Tall, Dark & Handsome to you, ma’am,” he says in an equally flat voice, but he can’t help the lip quirk that seems to happen of its own volition when she grins at him.

“Cute _and_ a sense of humour? I can’t imagine what you’re doing here with Stiles,” she says with an eyebrow raise of her own, gliding out from behind the counter to place The Abomination in front of a spluttering Stiles.

“Excuse _you_ ,” Stiles says indignantly, snatching a plastic spoon from Jenny’s outstretched hand with a scowl. “I am a _delight_ , and Derek is lucky to be here with me.” Derek snorts and slides into the booth opposite him, Jenny appearing again moments later with a coffee that smells strong enough to knock him into next week. He murmurs his thanks with nothing short of reverence, and Jenny glides away to serve the gaggle of pension-aged women who’ve just squeezed their way through the front door. They’re chatting amiably to one another, and to Jenny when she comes into view, and clearly come here often. Derek squints; there are copies of _Picnic at Hanging Rock_ clutched in their bony hands.

“Coven,” Stiles says casually, taking a towering spoonful of whipped cream and somehow getting it all in his mouth at once. Like maybe he’s _practised_. Derek suddenly wishes he were wearing less revealing trousers.

“What?” he says a little gruffly, taking a too-large gulp of his espresso and purposely burning his tongue just to have something else to focus on.

“The totally above-suspicion book club,” Stiles elaborates, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Local coven - completely harmless, and by that I mean _boring_. They wanted me to join them for their weekly meetings about growing herbs or _whatever_ , before I - y’know-” he leans back and indicates his stomach- “bonded myself forever to a beast.” Derek snorts and Stiles grins. 

“I assume they’ve stopped asking,” Derek says, turning slightly in his seat to look more closely at the women; they do feel slightly _off_ , though not in a dangerous way. Now that he knows they’re witches, it’s obvious though - the books are covered with a glamour that doesn’t hold up to close scrutiny from fellow Supernaturals. It turns out _Picnic at Hanging Rock_ isn’t actually the book of the week. Somehow, Derek doubts that they stock copies of  _The Many Magicale Properties of Mugwort & Other Plantes _ at the Beacon Hills public library.

“My magic isn’t compatible with theirs anymore and they’re a bit upset about it.” With that Stiles waves genially at the group of women, who are whispering and staring over at the two of them while Jenny makes several pots of tea with calm efficiency. The women wave hesitantly back, then potter off to a large table at the other side of the coffee shop, a number of scones, tarts, and cakes held between them. Stiles snorts fondly. “Marianne was heartbroken. I think she was going to try and set me up with her daughter.” He flicks his amused gaze back to Derek. “Given that Marianne’s pushing 80, I’m pretty sure she’d be better off setting her up with my _dad_.”

Derek laughs at that - he can’t help it - and he’s gratified when Stiles visibly flushes, his scent growing slightly hot. Stiles has one hand around his stupid drink and the other resting on the table, curling slightly in the natural way that hands do at rest. Derek drinks his coffee and thinks about how easy it would be to reach out and link their fingers.

He doesn’t do it.

Stiles huffs and goes after his straw with his tongue, simultaneously absent-minded yet determined, like he’s used to the struggle of getting a straw back into his mouth, yet has still never bothered to try improving his technique. Derek wonders how an adult man can get straws _so wrong_ , and yet _so right_ at the same time. Derek’s blushing now - how many times is that today? Three at least. This is getting out of hand.

“So,” Stiles says, after a prolonged moment of agony for Derek in which Stiles sucks on his straw so hard, glancing over at an incoming wave of students, that his cheeks hollow in an expressly pornographic way. Somehow Derek knows he’s not doing on purpose, but he doesn’t understand _how_.

“So,” Derek parrots back at him, his voice a little rough - he downs the last dregs of his coffee, already slightly mourning the loss. Today hasn’t gone quite according to plan. There’s still a stain on his uniform pants; he’s 99.9% sure he should’ve cleared this jaunt with the Sheriff first; he’s having explicit daydreams about fucking Stiles into next week, in spite of the fact that he has the tastebuds and hand-eye coordination of a toddler.

“So,” Stiles says again, absurdly, like it’s an acceptable way to start a sentence. “I was thinking for our _third_ date you could meet my Alpha, and we could get pizza after.” Stiles is beaming and he looks stupidly good in the soft mid-morning light, even as such ludicrous things come out of his mouth. The stupidity of the words, Derek reflects, are probably tempered slightly by just how good the mouth is that they’re coming from.

“I’m really not sure where you got that number from.” Stiles huffs and holds up a finger.

“Date number one - the meet-cute! We sat and talked, enraptured, after our eyes met across an empty room-”

“It was an _interrogation_ room,” Derek interrupts, but Stiles forges on, throwing up another finger.

“Date number _two_ ,” he says, indicating the room at large with the hand still holding his iced coffee. Even though it’s half empty, he still manages to jolt it enough that it sloshes over the rim and onto the sleeve of his hoodie. “An adorable cafe where I treat you to free coffee and we make doe eyes at each other in a secluded booth.”

“ _Both_ coffees were free,” Derek says exasperatedly, though he can feel his own mouth twitching up at the corners. “If you call _that_ a coffee,” he says, eyes narrowing reproachfully at the drink still clasped in Stiles’ hand. Stiles follows his gaze reflexively and swears when he sees the amount of coffee on his hoodie.

“Fuck - urgh. _Gross_ ,” he says with feeling, peeling off the hoodie and shoving it into a wadded-up ball in the unoccupied corner of the booth. He runs a hand through his hair and he looks both ridiculous and edible. Derek’s throat’s gone dry and he doesn’t even have any coffee left.

He gives in.

“The interrogation room wasn’t a date,” he says with finality. “And I’m not saying I’m going to meet your Alpha... But I am willing to concede that this feels relatively date-esque.” Stiles’ face _lights up_.

“Dude,” he breathes, the electricity in his scent picking up; Derek’s teeth itch and he curls his hands into fists on the soft leather either side of him to stop his claws from extending. Stiles leans forward and looks very pointedly at where Derek’s hands are obscured from view. “We are so picking _that_ up at a later date.”

This time when Derek flushes he’s fairly certain it’s with his whole body.

 

* * *

 

 

The lights in the room flicker as Derek shoves Stiles bodily into the wall of his apartment, the growl that’s been building at the back of his throat ripping free when the emissary’s eyes flash purple and gold back at him. He fists his hands in the front of Stiles’ stupid plaid shirt and barely registers the ripping sound - he’s too busy kissing Stiles with a bruising force that makes them both gasp. Stiles actually _climbs up_ Derek’s body, wrapping strong, lithe legs around Derek’s waist and rutting against him like he can’t help himself. Derek is making noises he’d previously have said he wasn’t capable of making, oscillating between needy and possessive as he grinds back against Stiles.

This isn’t how he was expecting their second date to go.

He’d arrived at Stiles’ place in his nicest jeans and a button-up, and Stiles had answered the door in mouthwatering chinos and a plaid shirt - before turning around and immediately going to change out of the chinos because _‘these pants hide nothing okay, Derek? Absolutely nothing. Let me have some dignity.’_

The dinner had been easy - good pizza and a few beers at a nice Italian restaurant not far from Stiles’ apartment - and the conversation even more so. Stiles has a lot of opinions about comic books - fortunately, so does Derek. He also has a lot of opinions about the way Stiles eats things.

“What are you _staring_ at, bucko?” Stiles asks, twirling a fork defiantly and impossibly between the fingers of his right hand, while his left pauses in the act of rolling up a whole slice of pizza. Stiles had explained the ‘pizza-rrito’ method of consumption at the beginning of the meal and, if possible, it’s actually worse to witness than it had been to hear about - if not for the reasons Derek was expecting. He’s not sure he can take another round of “let’s see if this will fit in Stiles’ mouth”.

Fun fact: it invariably does.

“It’s kind of hard _not_ to stare when you’re doing that,” Derek says with a sigh, gesturing at the half-formed pizza-rrito on Stiles’ plate with raised eyebrows. Stiles snorts.

“This is the future of earthly pizza consumption, Derek - get with the times.”

“Do you think we’ll have a Martian colony soon?” he responds dryly, leaning back in his chair with a bottle of beer in his hand. “If so, I volunteer.” Stiles stops twirling the fork in favour of jabbing it accusingly in Derek’s direction.

“I know your game, mister - a closet _Hunger Games_ fan, huh? I see can right through your intensely muscled, beautifully-sculpted exterior to the nerd within, don’t think I can’t.” Derek’s ears are hot again - he can only hope the dim lights are hiding it.

“I never said I was in the closet about anything,” he says gruffly -- Stiles throws his head back with a startled laugh and Derek zones-in helplessly on the thrumming pulse at his throat. “Stiles,” he says weakly. Stiles, still chuckling, meets Derek’s eyes across the table.

It’s just a matter of time after that really.

He doesn’t remember paying the bill, but he does remember the drive home; he can vividly recall gripping the steering wheel so hard it creaks in his grip, and being mildly concerned by the fact that Stiles seems to just be smelling _better_ with every second in that enclosed space. He’s in the passenger seat humming something, Derek thinks - but when he glances over, it looks more like he’s vibrating.

There’s also a noticeable bulge in Stiles’ jeans that Derek has to wilfully ignore for the following 20 minutes in order to avoid crashing the car.

It’s the best and worst drive of his life.

Which brings them here, to Stiles’ apartment, to the wall by the front door - where they’re both dangerously close to making a mess without even having removed their pants.

“Derek oh my _god_ take off your shirt, why are you even wearing one I’m so _mad_ -” Stiles isn’t making any sense as he whines and pulls at any bit of fabric he can reach, but Derek endeavours to do as he’s told.

“We were at a _restaurant_ -” Derek growls, ripping the offending article over his head, but then Stiles bites him on the shoulder and he loses time for a while.

They end up pressed together, tightly intertwined on the sofa, their shirts discarded in favour of skin-on-skin contact; Derek’s not sure when Stiles managed to undo both of their jeans, but he strongly suspects some kind of magic was involved. He glances down.

“Did you… vanish the button on my jeans?” he says incredulously, staring at smooth, buttonless denim in confusion.

“It was in the way,” Stiles says tightly, before leaning in to mouth at his neck, teeth grazing a weak spot Derek _definitely_ didn’t know he had, making him shiver and whine. He threads a hand through Stiles’ hair and pulls him up for a fierce kiss that leaves them both breathless, touching wherever he can reach because he doesn’t know how to stop; Derek’s quickly becoming obsessed with Stiles’ hip bones, the tendons in his long neck, the dips at the base of his spine. He feels like a work of art under Derek’s fingers, all lean muscle and the ozone-scented zing of magic beneath pale, dewy skin.

Stiles’ own searching fingers wrap very suddenly around Derek’s cock, hot and tight, causing him to curse quite vividly; his hands seize on Stiles’ hips like it’s a reflex, and then Stiles is saying “gotta just--” and wriggling down his body and it’s his _mouth_ instead.

Derek’s pretty sure he briefly blacks out.

He doesn’t want to think about it too much but he thinks Stiles must have _practised_ , because it is without a doubt the best blowjob Derek has ever received. He does things with his tongue that make Derek swear and buck, treating him to a very precise scrape of teeth just below the head - and Derek didn’t even know that could feel good, but ‘good’ doesn’t really do it justice. He’d like that noting down. He might write a poem about it actually, just as soon as he can remember words aside from ‘Stiles’, ‘fuck’, and ‘Jesus Christ’.

No matter how he writhes, Stiles just keeps on going; Derek can’t even look at him because he knows the second he does, it will all be over. Stiles hums a little, swallowing him down almost all the way, and Derek feels heat pool in his belly all too soon. His hands are back in Stiles’ hair and he chokes out a warning but if anything Stiles just redoubles his efforts.

Derek allows himself one look; Stiles, mouth stretched obscenely, hair spiked up in all directions under Derek’s hands, looks back at him with determination as he takes in the last inch of his cock, throat fluttering around him -- and it’s game over. Derek comes so hard he’d swear he sees God, and Stiles just takes him through it, swallowing everything and only sitting back once Derek is pushing weakly at his head, oversensitive and thinking about how weird it would be to ask Stiles where he took lessons.

He immediately pulls Stiles up for a kiss, sloppy and uncoordinated though it is, tasting himself and eating up the muffled little groans Stiles makes into his mouth. He pulls back after a moment and takes in the view.

“Did I break you?” Stiles asks breathlessly, looking entirely too pleased by the idea, voice slightly raspy from the previous moment’s activity. Derek’s a little too come-drunk to answer him, so just grins lazily; he can’t take his eyes off Stiles’ red, slightly swollen mouth, which right now looks more inviting than ever. He runs a thumb across Stiles’ lower lip and pulls him in again for another, more gentle kiss. When he pulls back this time he lets his hand trail down, wrapping it around Stiles’ leaking cock to a muffled _‘oh’_ of surprise. Stiles lets his head fall onto Derek’s shoulder, breathing fast as he looks down at where Derek is slowly jerking him off.

“You think you can last long enough to fuck me?” Derek asks conversationally.

Turns out they have enough energy to get to the bedroom after all.

*

“Oh my God, _Derek_ \--” Stiles stills with a gasp, eyes shut and arms braced either side of Derek’s head; Derek immediately grabs his biceps with something close to desperation and growls.

“If you stop moving I will _kill you_ ,” he warns and Stiles’ hips stutter like the idea of Derek physically mauling him is somehow doing it for him. He lets out a kind of maniacal giggle.

“That’s so… ridiculous - you could do that! You could just wolf out and -- _oh_.” Stiles cuts himself off with an amusingly canine whine as Derek digs his heels into the small of his back, applying just enough pressure to have Stiles (finally) sinking all the way in. Derek lets his head fall back onto the pillow and lets out a noise that he would probably describe, if pressed, as a sob.

“ _Move, Stilinski_ ,” Derek manages to grind out, moving his hands up from Stiles’ arms to his broad shoulders, getting enough leverage to reach up and set his canines against a thoroughly inviting tendon in Stiles’ neck and bite down.

“Jesus, I just -- you--” Stiles is struggling for words as he slowly draws back his hips and thrusts into Derek with a choked-off moan.

“Eloquent,” Derek manages to say somehow, even though he’s already about 30 seconds from coming again; apparently even a spectacular blowjob can’t take the edge off how good it feels to have Stiles inside him. He rests his forehead on the damp curve of Stiles’ neck and tries to think about things that will slow down the inevitable; not even his most gruesome case files seem to be doing the trick right now. He’s wound so tight he feels like he might scream.

“Fuck, Derek, I need-” Stiles breaks off, so Derek’s not sure what he needs but he takes an educated guess, cupping the back of Stiles’ neck and kissing him hot and hard on the mouth. Stiles keens, kissing back with enthusiasm and precisely _zero_ finesse, but it’s unbearably hot and it’s seconds before they’re both coming; it’s all heat and noise and movement, and Derek’s not sure who goes first but he doesn’t really care.

Derek thinks briefly, through a haze of static, that he would probably like to do this every day for the rest of his life.

Stiles, predictably, collapses on top of him as his arms give out. There’s a muffled apology from somewhere around Derek’s collarbone, but Derek just rubs Stiles’ back absentmindedly in lieu of a response, drifting pleasantly with his eyes closed. Stiles is still inside him but neither of them seem to have any intention of moving.

Moving would be terrible, Derek muses, and wonders how easy it would be to have Stiles just stay in him forever.

“You’re thinking weird wolfy stuff up there, aren’t you?” Stiles mumbles from Derek’s chest, tipping his head up so that the point of his chin is digging into Derek’s sternum. He doesn’t really mind; Derek is actually incredibly charitable after a couple of orgasms. He gives Stiles a half-heartedly withering look, but from the delighted smile that starts to spread across the other man’s face, he probably goes right past ‘withering’ and into ‘adoring’. Do not pass ‘Go’, do not collect $200.

“I’m thinking you should probably get off me before I lose all feeling in my extremities,” Derek lies. Stiles gasps dramatically.

“Jokes about my heft, Derek? Is the romance dead _already?_ This is galling - I am _galled_.” Stiles goes to move off him but fails to get very far when one of Derek’s arms curls more tightly around his back, anchoring him in place.

“Now that I’ve seen how much pizza you can put away, I’m surprised I’m not dead already,” he continues, as Stiles makes a noise like a wounded animal, clearly trying not to laugh. “Do you have hollow legs? A second stomach?” Stiles is vibrating with suppressed laughter now, wriggling away like he’s going to be able to get _anywhere_ with Derek’s bicep pinning him there and--

Well.  _That’s_ interesting.

“Are you getting hard again?” Derek asks hoarsely. “Seriously?” Incredulity mingles with almost instant answering arousal, his core temperature increasing by several degrees with alarming speed.

“So I get off on being lovingly insulted,” Stiles says with a slightly more purposeful wiggle that makes Derek’s breath catch in his throat. “What’re you gonna do about it, _punk_?”

Derek ponders, then lets his other hand come up to cup Stiles’ face.

“I’ll have to think about it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Derek meets Alpha Delgado a week later, which just goes to show you shouldn’t make a bet with anyone who can vanish the button off your jeans.

 

* * *

 

 

“I still think it’s cheating if you used _scrying_ to find them,” Derek says with a frown, not looking up from the paperwork he’s finishing up. He _really_ hates paperwork, and there’s a whole stack of it to do now that Stiles has solved his frustrating drugs case using goddamn magic.

“So it’s cheating if _I_ use my natural talents to fight crime,” Stiles says (and Derek doesn’t even need to look up to know he’s doing spirit fingers), “but using _yours_ is A-okay? Double-standards will not be tolerated in this relationship, pumpkin.” Derek snorts and looks up. Stiles is still doing spirit fingers for some reason.

“What are you going to do, _honey?_ Withhold sex? You tried that yesterday when I didn’t give you the last donut hole and 30 minutes later you were--”

 _“Yes_ , fine, _thank you Derek_ ,” Stiles says hastily, spirit fingers less spirited now that he’s remembered his dad still has an office here for occasional use -- usually when City Hall becomes too stifling. Derek lets a predatory grin spread across his face.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says in a low voice, standing up and slowly walking around his desk towards Stiles. “Did you not want anyone to know what I did to you yesterday? How you opened up for me so nicely and begged me to--”

 _“Derek_ _,”_ Stiles whines, swaying into his space, eyes glazed over very slightly. “Derek I cannot get a boner _at the station_.” Derek looks down at where Stiles’ body very obviously disagrees with that statement.

“Apparently you can,” he says mildly. Stiles pokes Derek in the chest, cheeks flushed.

“You really had me going at first, y’know? Thought you were shy and retiring and addicted to your work, which you never seemed to actually leave. Turns out you’ve got _game_ and I _hate_ it.”

(He obviously doesn’t hate it.)

Derek grins and puts a hand on the back of Stiles’ neck, squeezing gently as his thumb traces the soft skin over Stiles’ pulse.

“Never let a suspect see the real you,” he says, shrugging faux-casually as Stiles splutters.

 _“Suspect --?”_ he squawks, but Derek quickly swallows his protests with a firm kiss, which Stiles responds to with ready enthusiasm. Derek has already learned that Stiles likes kissing more than anything else in the world, which is a useful thing to know when you want to win arguments.

When they break apart a moment later, a flush still sits high on Stiles’ cheekbones, but he’s smiling.

“You’re so good at that,” he says a little dreamily, and Derek bites back a self-satisfied smirk. Stiles’ gaze sharpens. “You’re not getting out of the bet though. I solved the case - you’re meeting Scott tonight.”

“Crap.”

 

* * *

 

 

Alpha Delgado is nothing like what Derek was imagining. He’s been a werewolf his entire life, and he’s been around plenty of them; most of his family, barring a few humans and other shifters, had been werewolves.

None of them were as undeniably _puppy-ish_ as Scott Delgado.

“Hey, man, so good to finally meet you!” Scott says brightly, offering out a hand to Derek with a thousand-watt smile. His jaw’s kind of crooked, he has to keep brushing a mop of dark, floppy hair out of his eyes, and he’s about the most wholesome looking person Derek’s ever seen. He should be on the Disney channel.

Derek takes his hand and is immediately pulled into a back-slapping hug; he tries not to tense up and almost gives himself a hernia with the effort.

When the hug is over Derek breathes a sigh of relief - thankfully Scott doesn’t notice, because he and Stiles are busy making heart-eyes at each other.

“Bro,” Stiles says solemnly, holding out his arms with unnecessary gravitas.

“ _Bro_ ,” Scott replies, like it’s some kind of formal greeting on the _insane planet_ that they clearly both come from. Scott’s in the circle of Stiles’ arms in a heartbeat, and Derek swears to God they both fucking _sigh_ at the contact. 

(He belatedly remembers the paw print on Stiles’ hip and concedes that the whole thing is probably a lot less weird than he originally thought.)

After an unreasonably long embrace (the word ‘hug’ doesn’t really cover it), Scott pulls back and looks at Stiles with sorrowful eyes.

“Where have you been, man? Isaac actually asked me if you were on a secret mission for the pack yesterday - we haven’t seen you in a week!” Stiles grins wickedly.

“I’ve barely gotten up to be honest, dude,” he says, shooting a glance at Derek, who rolls his eyes. He looks back to Scott. “Sex. So much sex. With Derek. If that wasn’t clear.” Scott screws his face up in disgust.

“Dude, I did _not_ need to know that,” he whines plaintively, puppy routine still going strong. “Please don’t give me deets.”

“But bro,” Stiles croons, dramatically clutching at his heart and sighing. “I have experienced nirvana this past week - I need to share with you the delights of--” Scott shoves a hand over Stiles’ mouth.

 _“Stop,”_ he wails, flinching away only a second later with a shout of disgust when Stiles licks the hand covering his mouth. “Oh my _god_ just come inside, you absolute animal.” Stiles grins and strolls inside the house - Derek’s about to follow him when Scott turns to him with an easy smile.

“Thank you for coming, Alpha Hale. We don’t really stand on ceremony, but I know it took a lot for you to come here and I appreciate it.” It’s like a switch has been flipped inside Scott, and suddenly Derek’s looking at the True Alpha instead of a happy-go-lucky frat bro; he’s still young - only time will change that - but his inexperience seems to melt away with the straightness of his spine and the ease of his words. Derek nods.

“I’ve been away a long time,” he says slowly, ears tuning in and out of the hubbub indoors, which tells him that Stiles and the pack are having a raucous reunion. “I’ve been lax in my duties to the land and it’s time I did something about that.” Alpha Delgado looks at him assessingly.

“You lost a bet, didn’t you?” he says after a moment, mouth twitching up at the corners. Derek sighs and runs a hand over his eyes.

“That may have played a not insubstantial part in my arrival, yes.” Scott laughs and Derek can’t help but smile a little at the sound; he knows this pack’s been through a lot, so the easiness of their Alpha’s good humour is as surprising as it is welcome.

“Come inside - meet the pack,” Scott says firmly, waving a hand towards the wraparound porch, which is currently littered with bikes. “There’s no pressure for you to do anything, but I think your experience would be invaluable.” He gives Derek a shit-eating grin. “And you might learn a thing or two about Stiles, which will definitely be worth the trip.”

Derek’s been hiding for years from what he--- No. From what _Kate_ did. From what a rogue hunter did to his family and his pack. He’s a different person now, and he would give anything in the world to change what happened, but it’s time for him to look forward.

“I’d like that,” he says decisively. Stiles sticks his head out the still-open front door and glares at Scott.

“You’d better not be telling him about the swingset,” he warns, pointing threateningly at his Alpha. “If you scare him off before I’ve even had the chance to properly explore the many and varied kinks I seem to have, I’ll put wolfsbane in your laundry detergent.”

Derek raises his eyes to the heavens as Scott claps his hands over his ears, wailing once again about how he _really didn’t need to hear that Stiles_ while Stiles cackles ruthlessly.

Yes, Derek’s a different person now - and he has Stiles. It’s going to be fine. He meets Stiles’ eyes in the doorway and gets a warm smile in return that he feels in his bones.

No, it’s not going to be fine - it’s going to be _great_.

**Author's Note:**

> Is it love or magic clothing removal? Baby it's both but who cares.
> 
> Am I proud of myself for finishing this after 9 months? Absolutely not. Some people have BABIES in that time. How many babies have I had? Zero. Not one single baby. No squalling infants in my house, no siree. Unless you count the cat, which I probably should - he's very demanding. Sorry about all this, I'm very tired - I have low haemoglobin, did you know that? Well, you do now. Derek and I are similarly caffeine dependent.
> 
> Anyway, you're all lovely and I'm proud of your achievements. Mamma needs a nap now.


End file.
